


Days That Never Came

by EvilWearsBowties



Category: Of Mice and Men - John Steinbeck
Genre: Afterlife, Dreams, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-13
Updated: 2014-11-13
Packaged: 2018-02-25 07:12:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2612945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilWearsBowties/pseuds/EvilWearsBowties
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the dreams started coming, George didn't know what else to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Days That Never Came

George had been looking at the Gabilan mountains his whole life, but when he stepped out on the veranda, it was like he was seeing them for the first time.

Cast in silhouette against the crimson backdrop of sunset, the rocky peaks were cached in a haze of purple shadows; it was like looking at them through a shroud of gauze, or the soft, wispy curtains his mother would hang in the sitting room to better let in the soft light on dark winter mornings. The caps were haloed by the last true rays of sunlight before the gray of dusk set in, and George shielded his eyes against the light as he surveyed the land.

It was so much like his dream that part of him wasn't sure it wasn't. The veranda, simple and unadorned, save for two near identical rocking chairs, wrapped neatly around the small bungalow; a lone wind chime, made of freshwater clams shells and strung up with fishing wire onto driftwood, clattered mournfully in the light breeze. Fire wood, neatly shopped and stacked, rested against the side of the porch, bundled in fishing netting, and on the other side, tethered to one of the rails, was an empty leash, laid forlorn next to a large metal bowl, half full with water. George ran his hands along the porch railing, relishing the texture of the well worn paint, and gave one of the rocking chairs and experimental nudge. He smiled with satisfaction at the soft creak of its runners on the floor. This was his, he thought, a welling of pride surging through him. His. The word felt foreign and exotic, even in his thoughts; he imagined what it must taste like, to say it out loud: his home, his ranch. It had been too long since he'd had anything to call his own. And now, all this. He turned back toward the railing, leaning against it on his elbows, and surveyed the land.

He'd seen picture postcards that couldn't rival what he was looking at, he thought proudly; photographs never quite captured the burnished bronze of evening sunlight on the tall grass, couldn't convey the soft, rustling hush of the breeze through the trees. He squinted, staring across the seemingly endless fields, to where the line of the horizon met the swell at the base of the mountains. He knew, in his mind, that a line of ownership had to be drawn somewhere, he was sure; but at that moment, a sense of pride and possessiveness welled up inside him. His, he thought. This was his.

In the perirphery of his vision, he sensed movement. A huge, mottled Harlequin Dane, its head and shoulders towering over the grass, tramped across the field, nipping playfully at the heads of dusty purple flowers. It's glossy patchwork fur shone in the sun, the ripple of it's muscles belying its strength despite its playful demeanor. It was, George thought, by all accounts, a beautiful animal. A whistle cut across the field, shrill and sharp; a flock of plovers that had alighted on the gutter running along the roof took flight in a hurried rush of wings and surprised bips. The Great Dane turned, ears perked, and tramped eagerly over to his master, a giant of a man, an armful of firewood slung back over his shoulder. He scratched the dog behind his ears and looked up towards the veranda expectantly; the sun cut a swarth of light beneath the brim of his cap. George's breath caught in his throat.

"Lennie," he choked.

His feet were moving before his next coherent thought, flying down the wooden steps, out across the field through knee-high grass. His breath came in great, ragged gasps, his chest pounding with every beat of heart. He hadn't thought what he'd do when he reached Lennie, but luckily Lennie acted first, opening his arms as George ran, unthinking, into them. 

"Hey, George," Lennie said, his voice happy but uncharacteristically subdued. "What took you so long?"

George pulled away, holding Lennie at arm's length as he fought to regain controlling of his breathing. He looked up at Lennie, his placid, pleasant face burnished a healthy bronze, his cap pulled down low over his eyes, the same as George's. George could taste them, the words of an apology on his tongue, a metallic tang that tasted of blood and gunpowder but was fading fast. He shook his head. Lennie watched him expectantly.

"George?"

"I... lost time at work," he said slowly. A nagging sense of displacement gnawed quietly at the back of his mind. "Had a tire blowout after we loaded the truck up. Took me, Slim, 'n Whit near an hour to get the damn thing back to the ranch." He looked back up at Lennie.

"How long," he hesitated, "how long I been gone?"

Lennie shrugged, and leaned over to scratch the dog, who'd come to sit at heel while George was pre-occupied, behind the ear. She whined and leaned into his hand gratefully. Even at Lennie's height, he barely needed to stoop to rub her head.

"I ain't no good with time," he said complacently. "But I don't think you met Pup yet. Ain't she somethin,' George?" George smiled.

"Yeah, she's a beaut, I gotta say," George agreed. "Beuatiful animal, I tell ya."

"And she's soft, George, feel how soft," Lennie grabbed George's hand and guided it down the dogs' back, across her silky coat, and watched George's face expectantly. George nodded indulgently.

"Sure is," he nodded. "Sure is." Lennie beamed.

"And she's big, too!" he exclaimed needlessly. "Big big! Too big for me to break, George." 

Something in George twinged at the words. Something twanged, like the spring of a gun. He pulled his arm back hastily, rubbing his hands on his jeans. Lennie seemed not to notice. He stroked Pup from head to tail one final time before his eyes lit up, as though just realizing something.

"You know what else I think you ain't seen yet?" he said excitedly. He nodded for George to follow him. Pup trailed him at heel, tail wagging happily, and George followed close behind.

"I guess we finally did it, huh, Lennie?" George murmured, half to himself. His eyes took in everything they could, hungry for this landscape for so long. "Nice little place to ourselves, a field, a vegerable patch," he mused, reaching out to slide his fingers across the smooth skin of a bell pepper on the vine growing along the side of the bungalow admidst patches of carrots and cauliflower, and a rich green, fragrant crop of cilantro. Lennie nodded enthusiastically.

"It's ju' like you always said," he said. He turned and smiled at George. "Even about the rabbits, George. And I thought you was foolin.'"

"Jesus Christ," George breathed. He threw his head back and laughed. "Hand to God, Lennie, I was just joshin' ya when I said it, but I'll be damned. I'll be damned. I didn't know rabbits came in those colors."

Along the side of the house, in the cool shade of a California oak, sat a massive rabbit hutch. In each of the the four pens, seperated by wire nettings, were clutches of jewel-toned rabbits. Lennie unlatched the pen at the end and reached in, carefully pulling out two delicate does, one a bright turquoise and one a brillaint ruby, and handed one to George before latching the pen closed again. He lowered himself on the soft grasses and cradled the rabbit close to his chest, grinning. George carefully fell to his knees before settling himself on the ground. 

"Ain't you a pretty thing?" George murmured, stroking the soft fur between the doe's slender ears. Her left ear twitched and she winked up at him placidly. He could feel her thrumming heartbeat against his, her small body warm and vibrating with energy as he held her to his chest. He glanced up at Lennie and smiled.

"Ain't this just perfect?" he mused. "Goddamn. Better'n I coulda dreamed it'd be. Everything we wanted, ain't it, Lennie?" He closed his eyes, nuzzled the rabbit close. It smelled of damp cedar and fresh hay, warm and wild. He sighed. "Everything we wanted.

The grin faded from Lennie's face and he grew quiet. He looked down at the rabbit in his arms and stroked it, his hand nearly as large as the animal. His fingers scratched deftly and surprisingly delicately behind its ear.

"Does this mean you're stayin' this time, George?" His pale eyes were hopeful. "Or are you leavin' again?"

"Leavin'?" George said, furrowing his brow. "Hell, Lennie, I just got here!" The rest of what Lennie said began to sink in.

"I ain't never left you before," he said slowly. "Why you talkin' like I walked out on you before?"

Lennie looked out into the distance. In the setting sun, his broad face was strangely weary.

"I hope you stay," Lennie murmured, half to himself. "Nights is lonely. I ain't never noticed 'cause I ain't never really been alone at night." A light breeze blew in from the west, bringing with it the sharp scent of a woodfire, and the green, moist tang of freshly turned earth.

"The rabbits gets restless," he continued. "Like they can tell somethin's missin'. Pup too," he said, reaching out and patting her broad back; Pup whined softly, the way a horse might whinny at a friendly hand. "She knows yer supposed to be here and you ain't."

"Whaddya mean, I ain't?" George's voice grew sharp and desperate. "Lennie, I'm right here! Jus' got here, took me Lord knows how long! I ain't gonna leave now!" Lennie smiled sadly.

"You was gone an awful long time, George," Lennie continued. "I ain't no good with time, but..." he trailed off, gazing into the distance.

"Just promise me you come back soon as you can," he said. His chin dropped to his chest and he stroked the brilliant red rabbit that had settled on his lap. George shook his head, panic rising in him like a storm.

"Lennie, I'm tellin' you, I ain't goin' nowhere!"

\---

His sheets were soaked through when he awoke, in the gray light before sun up. It took him a moment to remember where he was. He pulled himself upright. Sitting in his pile of damp sheets, he peeled his soaked night shirt over his head, tossing it in a pile beside his bunk and lay back down, shivering. He glanced across the room to Lennie's bunk.

It was still empty.

It came back in a rush, though George knew it had never really left, just been held at bay by exhaustion and the preoccupations of the day. His fingers dug into his thin matresses, leaving his knuckles white; he could still feel the weight of the gun in his hand, could swear his skin still smelled of gun powder, that his shoulder still ached from the kickback.

It'd only been three days, but the rest of the world had moved on, it seemed. George had done what had to be done. Slim and Candy vouched for him; no one was blaming him for nothing. The sherrif and the reverend had both come and gone and left their condolences, and there was a proper burial plot behind the main estate up on the hill, a beautiful little shaded nook canopied by sycamores, and a rough, unmarked grave down by the brush that had left dirt caked under George's fingernails for days. 

He could still feel the warm press of fur against his chest, though; could feel the spot where the impossibly hued rabbit had settled, cradled in his arms in the small spot just below his breast bone. George pressed a hand there, fingers splayed, and felt the pounding of his own heart. The residual heat was dissipating, but he was certain it had been there. He was sure of it.

His pillow smelled of fresh hay and alfalfa. He closed his eyes, willed his pulse to slow.

\---

Slim siddled up to him at breakfast, concern writ plainly across his face. George nodded to him as he took a seat beside him at the mess tent, less because he wanted to talk about what was bothering him and more because he couldn't deny that, on some level, he admired Slim's willingness to ask. The other guys, George hadn't been slow to notice, had not simply seemed to move on, but to conciously ignore that Lennie -- and by proxy, Georeg -- had ever even existed. Slim slid his tray across the scrubbed wooden stable, a pile of hastily cooked eggs and bacon glistening in the sun. George kept his head down, his shoulders in tight. Slim watched him carefully, eyes taking in the drawn face, and the shadows George knew had settled around his eyes.

"How you keepin', then?" Slim said quietly. George nodded, wiping his face with his hand.

"'M all right, I s'pose," he said. Slim nodded.

"Been a few days," he continued. "World's still spinnin'. Sun still comin' up every mornin'. I'm sure there's days, and there'll always be days when it seems like maybe that shouldn't be, but --" he stared at George, the pull of his gaze strong enough for George to feel obligated to meet it. 

"--in time, the world will start to make sense again," he finished. "Least as much as it ever has."

"Has it ever?" George asked. "Reckon it can't do something 'again' it ain't never done in the first place." 

Slim shrugged. "There's a kind of order to the world," he said. "There's rule and laws that things follow, patterns that you can see if you're lookin' close enough."

"Yeah, the pattern of my life," George said, feeling heat rise to his face, "has always been one disappointment efter another, and every one more cripplin' than the one before it. There's your pattern, and it don't take no eagle eye to spot it, neither. No, what I'd like to know is where's the sense come in?" 

"I tried to be a good man," he continued, turning to face Slim full on. "Now, I ain't always succeeded, I ain't gonna lie. I done things I ain't proud of, but I always tried to keep my nose clean, not start trouble with no one. I got into a scrap or two, no doubt, but it wasn't never anything I started. I worked hard. And Lennie --"

He turned back to his plate, his heart pounding, his words cut off by a constrictive tightness in his throat. He swallowed once, twice. He breathed in deeply through his nose.

"Lennie," he finished, "Lennie ain't never meant no one harm, ain't never meant to be cruel. He couldn't help what he was, but he wasn't never cruel. Not the way men can be."

"No," Slim agreed, "I don't reckon he was."

"So tell me where the sense is, then," George said. "Tell me where the sense is, where guys like me and Lennie gotta live and die the way we do. You tell me that, Slim. I'm beggin' you."

"I can't," Slim said simply. "I can't."

"But I can tell you that you ain't the only one who's suffered in this life, George," he said, not unkindly. "You ain't the only one whose world's been turned upside-down, and you won't be the first to be surprised when it slowly rights itself again."

"And what if it don't?" 

"If it don't?"

"If my life don't right itself," George said. "If it just stays like this, this lonely mess of a thing. What then?"

Slim watched him closely, his eyes clear and concerned. 

"You gotta be patient," he said slowly. "Three days ain't a long time, George, not a long time at all."

"Isn't it?" 

"It ain't."

"Feels like it is," George murmured. "Feels like it's been goddamn forever."

\---

"What gives, Milton?"

George cocked his head, glanced up from under the weight of the grain bag hanging over his shoulder. Whit stared at him, hands on his hips, discomfort and annoyanced warring for dominance on his face. Whatever he had to say, George figured, had to be eating at him something fierce, if it was forcing him to acknowledge George's existance. George stopped in his tracks and turned to the other man.

"What's the problem?" George asked gruffly. The grain bags weren't necessarily a two man job, but they were heavy nonetheless, and George wasn't a big man. He shifted on his feet to take the weight off his shoulder and stretched his neck. Whit crossed and uncrossed his arms uncomfortably. He licked his lips.  
"You been distracted," he said finally. "Ain't got your head in the job."

"Tossing grain bags onto the back of a trailer," George said dryly. "Arms, legs, back, maybe, but I don't see where my head figures into it."

"I mean you're mind, Milton," Whit sighed. "You're distracted."

"Can't rightly say why that might be," George said, groaning as he flung the grain bag down at his feet. He stared intently at Whit, his gaze unflinching.

"It's the damnedest thing, ain't it?" he continued, hands on his hips. He felt rivulets of sweat run down the side of his face, but made no move to wipe them away. "Damnedest thing. Can't figure what'd be distractin' me. Where my mind could be at. What do you reckon, Whit? Help me out here, cause apparently my mind's wandering I ain't got a clue where it could be."

Whit lowered his eyes, face reddening. He glanced around; the men, for the most part, seemed not to noticed what was transpiring between him and George. He scuffed the dirt with his shoe.

"You ain't gotta get smart," he murmured. George took a step closer; Whit moved back, fast, the small of his back jarring hard against the back of the wagon. 

"But I ain't smart," George said. His voice was low and level. "I ain't. And I ain't tryin' to be. I'm askin' you a question, Whit, and I expect an answer, and don' try to weasel out of it. Don't think I don' wanna hear you say it. Now tell me, what d'you think could possibly be distracting me?"

Whit rubbed at the small of his back, avoiding George's eyes. The men continued their work uninterrupted, though one or two cast a curous glance over at the two of them. From the corner of his eye, George could see Slim, just at the edge of his vision. 

"I..." Whit started. He stopped and licked his lips. "I guess... I reckon maybe you're thinkin' about what went on down by the river th'other day."

"I ain't asking you to feel sorry for me," George said. His breath hissed out through his nose sharply as he collected himself. "Lennie done somethin'n unforgivable, and I did the only thing that I coulda done. I get that. An' I still got a job to do here, I get that too. I ain't smart, but I ain't no fool either. So I'll do my job and I'll keep my mouth shut, but unless you got something you can actually point to an' say I done it wrong, or unless there's a job I was s'posed to do that I ain't got done, I'm gonna ask you -- nice, this time -- that you keep your mouth shut too, you got it?"

Whit's eyes flickered over George's face as a silent unvoiced responses flitted through his mind. He nodded his head.

"He wasn't no rabid dog I took out back and put down," George said, swallowing thickly. "He was my friend."

"Yeah," Whit said quickly, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Yeah, George, I know." He nodded to George and backed away, turning to wander over to another group of men, resting with a ration of water. George picked his sack up and hurled it onto the wagon. It landed hard; for a split second, he was scared the seam might burst.

"You okay?" Slim's voice cam from just over George's shoulder. George turned without meeting Slim's eyes and pushed past him, knocking their shoulders together.

"Don't," he said, hoisting another bag onto his shoulders and moving back to the wagon. Slim stayed where he was, his eyes following George as he tossed the bag on board and went back for another.

"It's eatin' you," Slim said quietly. "It's eatin' you and soon it's gonna eat the best parts of you, and you're gonna be nothing but hurt and anger wearing a suit of bones and skin."

"It ain't," George said, through clenched teeth. "I ain't."

Slim watched him for a moment longer before turning away with an almost imperceptible sigh.

"Well," he said, "If you wanna talk, you know where I am."

George didn't respond. He picked up another bag of grain and another and another, until his shoulders throbbed and the su set, and the ride back to the bunkhouse was blur. Supper was on when they got in, most of the men heading to get washed before dinner.

George, who had no appetite, let himself into the bunkhouse. It was barely after sunset.

He lay down on his bunk and breathed in the smell of sweet grass and alfalfa.

\---

 

The sun was warm, but George basked in the movement of air over his skin, in the lick of the wind as he ran, cutting through the knee high grass, Pup trailing close at heel. He turned, and Pup reared like a horse before falling into a play bow, the force of her wagging tail wiggling her entire rear end as she held it in the air. George clapped his hands and took on after her, Pup turning and running with a joyful yelp across the yellow and green field. George hooted and hollered as he ran, Pup bounding in gleeful circles around him until he made any move towards her; then she took off through the fields again, the powerful muscles in her back rippling beneath her glistening coat.

George paused, hands on his knees, and smiled up at the sun. Pup stopped in her tracks and watched him eagerly, her huge, square head cocked inquisitively over the grass. He huffed a breathless laugh and collapsed int he grass, pulling the brim of his cap over his eyes. He could hear Pup moving through the grass, the warm snuffling of her breath around his ears. He reached out blindling, smiling, and ruffled her ears with both hands.

"There ya go, girl," he panted. "Ah, you're too much, I tell ya. Gonna wear me out. Don't you never need a break?" He pushed the brim of his hat back as he sat up. Pup sat obediently beside him, watching his patiently. Her tail hammered a steady rhythm against the ground. George caught his breath, looking out across the field. Their bungalow was visible in the distance, idillyic and isolated among the shade of the sycamores and oaks. He grew suddenly somber. Pup nudged his elbow with her snout, and he slung his arm around her neck, scratching her idly behind her ear.

"Now," he murmured mostly to himself, "how do you suppose we got out here, girl?" He glanced behind him, across the endless swaying grass, to the brilliant purple swell of the mountains. 

"Last I know, it was quittin' time," he went on, barely a whisper. "Skipped dinner, went back to the bunk house. Guys was talkin' 'bout playin' cards, wasn't gonna ask me. Never ask me no more. I went to bed..." he trailed off. The was a buzzing like static under his skin. The hairs on his arms stood on end. He stood up suddenly, brushing his hands down the front of his coveralls. His heart was racing.

"Come on, girl," he said. "Let's go find Lennie."

It wasn't hard to figure where Lennie was, mid-day; George found out him around the side of the house, in the shade of the great trees on his knees. He bit his lip in concentration as he poked long, lean sprouts of alfalfa and sweet grass through the wire netting of the rabbit hutch. The small bucks sniffedaround his fingers before nibbling on the stalks. Lennie smiled, glancing up at George.

"Do you wanna feed 'em?" Lennie placed the small, turquoise rabbit in his lap, and gathered a handful of alfalfa from the basket beside him to hand to George. 

George dropped to his knees and siddled over to the rabbit hutch, pushing the sprouts through the wire netting of their home. A small female the color of polished topaz wiggled her nose discerningly at it before nibbling eagerly on the ends. George smiled. Lennie leaned back, settling himself on the grass contentedly; the small, sapphire rabbit shuffled forward to nestle happily on his chest. He closed his eyes, turning his face to the sun.

"You're early today," Lennie said happily. George nodded before catching himself. The strange static was back, causing him to shiver. A low buzz hummed in his ears, just below the limits of his hearing. He shook his head.

"Yeah," he said distractedly. "Well, finished early, I reckon. Tomorrow being Sunday, why not just head home, relax?" He turned to look at Lennie, his face restful in the sun. 

"Know anywhere more relaxin' than this place right here?"

Lennie smiled and shook his head, eyes still closed.

"Does this mean you're stayin', then?" 

George's smile faltered. He pushed a few more alfalfa sprouts intot he hutch. An emerald rabbit and a rabbit the color of amethyst huddled togeher, chewing at them idly.

"It ain't that I don' want to, Lennie," he said slowly. "It's just -- work keeps draggin' me back, you know? If I could --" he cleared his throat, swallowing hard around a sudden tightness, "If I could, I wouldn't never leave you. You know that." He looked over at Lennie, suddenly desperate. Lennie's pale eyes were opened and watching George.

You know that, right, Lennie?"

Lennie closed his eyes, furrowing his brow as he turned his face back to the sun. The light shining off his rabbit's sleek fur gave his face a strange, ethereal blue glow.

"I know," he said slowly, "you always come back. You go away, but you ain't never gone for long, George. Never for too long."

George looked out over the property stretching into the distance behind the house.

"Well," George sighed, lowering himself to lat next to Lennie on the soft grass, "I suppose that's gotta be good enough for now."

"You see these clouds, George?" Lennie asked, squinting up at the sky from beneath the brim of his cap. "You see these clouds?"

"Yeah, I see 'em," George murmured. He could feel Lennie shift as he raised his arm and pointed.

"Watch," he said. "George -- you watchin'?"

George pushed the brim of his hat back and stared indulgently up at the sky. The sun beamed warm and heavy on his face. 

"Yeah, I'm watchin', Lennie," he said.

"Look-it this," Lennie giggled. 

For a moment, George couldn't tell what was happening. The clouds moved across the sky slowly, caught in an eddy high above them; then, slowly, the soft edges began to shift, to move against the currents of air.

George gaped at the sky, Lennie's face turned up in a broad grin.

"It's a rabbit, George!" Lennie exclaimed happily. "Watch, I can make him friends."

"How did you..." George trailed off, just above a whisper. Overhead, soft wisps trailed after a cloud rabbits, a Great Dane and several smaller puppies floating placidly behind. George pulled his eyes away from the sky to look at Lennie.

"How..." The faint static crackle buzzed under his skin again. He sat up abruptly.

"How did I get out here?" he murmured to himself.

"George," Lennie said, concerned. "What's the matter?" He sat up, pulled his knees up to his chest. George sat in silence for a moment, listening to the wind blowing through the tall grasses, the soft rustling of the rabbits in their hutch. Next to Lennie, where she had settled, Pup let out a soft, whining moan. George shook his head. He lowered himself back to the grass.

"Nothin', Lennie," he said. "Nothin' at all." 

Lennie propped himself up on one elbow and grinned down at George.

"Hey, George," he said, "Want to try? I can tell you how to do it. It ain't hard, I swear."

"Can't be if you do it," George said, a grin sliding across his face. Lennie scooted closer, laid next to George so their heads were nearly touching. He pointed above them, at a large bank of clouds passing slowly overhead.

"Just think of something," Lennie said. "Anything. You gotta get a picture in your head of what it is. Can you picture something, George? Anything at all?"

"Well, let's just see," George murmured. He closed his eyes and concentrated.

\---

"You been skippin' dinner a lot lately," Slim said, as George shoveled down his dinner at a breakneck pace, chasing his bread down with gulps of water just so as not to choke. "Been goin' to bed awful early, too. Guys miss you at our card games."

"No one misses me," George said gruffly. He pounded his chest and cleared his throat, food lodge tight in his gullet. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Don't do no good to lie about it."

"I miss you," Slim said. George tucked his chin into his chest and slowed his eating, letting his fork clatter to his plate. He looked away.

"I'm worried about you," he continued. "Not saying I have any right to be; you don't owe me nothin', you ain't got to answer to me for no reason. But I worry. You ain't being kind to yourself, George."

"Ain't no one ever been kind to me," he said. "I don't think I know how to react to people bein' kind. Ain't used to it." He left his knife and fork and stood, turning away from the table.

"Don't need it," he finished. Slim stood, followed him past the mess tables and halfway down to the stables. George stopped and turned on his heel.

"Slim," he said sharply, "I like you. And I respect you, much as I ever respected another man, much as I ever trusted another man, I trust you. But you are lookin' for trouble, I promise you."

"I'm looking to help you."

"I don't need no help," George said. "I been skippin' supper so I can sleep. I sleep cause I'm tired. I'm tired 'cause I'm bucking barley and tillin' fields all day and I ain't a big guy, Slim. It takes a lot outta me, and I'm tired. Goddamn it. That's all."

"You ain't never even left the bunkhouse on Sunday," Slim continued. "Slept the whole damn day, far as I could tell. Now here we are, Saturday, and you know the guys are going head into town after supper. Where are you going?"

George averted his eyes.

"They always come back so goddamn loud," he said. "I thought I'd keep in the stable tonight."

"George."

"I'm tired," George said again. "I'm tired and I'm tired of talkin 'bout this. Look, if you respect me, as a man? If you respect me even close to the way I respect you, you will stay outta this. I'm tired, Slim. I'm just tired."

George turned and walked towards the barn, still half expecting Slim to follow after him or call him back.

He never did.

He simply watched George walk away, the curve of his spine just a little more prominent beneath his skin, the slump of his shoulders just a bit steeper. 

\---

That night George stood at the parlor windows and watched Lennie pull a heavy tarp over the rabbit hutch as the low roar of thunder rolled across the darkening sky.

"Rabbits is safe," Lennie announced proudly, coming in from the porch. The cool, electric smell of impending rain trailed after him like a ghost, stinging George's nose. "Chickens too, I got them all cooped, 'n they huddlin' together like they know the storm's comin'."

"Yeah," George nodded, still watching out the window, "They say that animals do. Know when a storm's comin', I mean."

"You're here late, George," Lennie said, joining George at the window. George could see his reflection in the glass as Lennie looked out towards the horizon, at the font of dark clouds rolling in from the west. George nodded, watching Lennie in the glass.

"Yeah," he said shrugging. "Sorry 'bout that."

A light patter of rain began on the roof. George watched the dirt path leading to the porch steps deepned from a dusty brown to a rich, deep almost-black. Lennie shifted on his feet.

"Does that mean you're stayin'?" he asked shyly. 

"For the night, I mean," he said suddenly. "'Cause I know you gotta work. I remember," he grinned, looking out towards the horizon. "I sure did, you bet. I remembered that."

"Yeah," George said, "you did." He was quiet for a minute.

"You been better," he said slowly. "Since you got here. You remember things. You ain't hurt nothing." Lennie nodded. He looked at George directly, and George turned from the window to meet his eyes.

"This is a good place, George," he said quietly. "You can tell. You can feel it, can't you, George?" He turned back to the window, pressing his broad hands against the cool glass. His face was serene.

"It is a good place," George agreed.

"You'll like it here," Lennie said, "When you come to stay."

"Yeah," George murmured. "Yeah."

"Then you can stop feelin' bad 'bout sendin' me here alone."

George stilled, and the room darkened. A rool of thunder ebbed and swelled in the distance.

"Whaddya say, Lennie?" George murmured. Lennie's eyes were gentle and earnest. 

"You don't gotta feel bad, George," he said. "About sendin' me here. honest. It's a good place. I'm happy here, I really am, George, I swear."

George shook his head to clear it. "But whaddya... whaddya mean, when I sent you...?"

Lennie cocked his head. "Don't you remember, George? You was always the one who was good at rememberin' things."

George put a hand up to his forehead and closed his eyes. With the press of skin on skin, he felt feverish, his hands cold and his forehead pricking with sweat. 

"I do," he murmured. Lennie's voice came as though from very far away.

"It was by the river, in the brush," he said. "It was where you told me to go if I got in trouble."

"I know."

"I done a bad thing," he said. "And so I ran. I went there, just like you said. You was nice to me, George. I thought you was gonna give me hell, but you was so nice."

"Lennie."

"You told me 'bout the rabbits, George," he continued, his voice lulling and placid. "Told me to look, look across to where the mountains met up with the sky and I could almost see 'em, and I did. I seen 'em George, pink an' blue an' green. An' the house and the little barn and Pup was all there, too, but you wasn't there yet. But I knew you'd come."

George lowered his hand and turned away. Lennie followed him closely, concern written across his simple face.

"Why you cryin', George?" he asked. "Did I do somethin' wrong?"

"No," he said. "You ain't done nothin' wrong." He wiped his face across the back of his arm and took a deep breath.

"I never shoulda sent you here alone," he murmured. "Wasn't right. I was supposed to watch after you. I was supposed to take care of you."

"You're here now, George," Lennie said tentatively. George put his hand on his hips and stared out across their acres, over the fields of long grasses and cattails, their lazy heads bowed in the rain, and the bright red of the barn, the speckled white chickens huddled just inside the door way. From behind him, he heard Pup's heavy footfalls on the floor as she moved closer to the fire, the soft jangle of her collar as she settled herself back down on the worn, braided rug before the hearth.

It's a good place. I'm happy here.

"Give me one more day," he said to Lennie. "So's I can say goodbye to everyone at the ranch, proper, you know. Like I didn't get to do with you." 

"Sure, George," Lennie said happily. "One more day's just fine. Sure."

\---

Under the porch light, Slim was a shadow, only the faint glow of his cigarette lighting his face.

"I been havin' dreams," George said. His voice was hoarse and barely above a whisper. Slim glanced back over his shoulder to where George stood in the mouth of the doorway. He exhaled a great plume of smoke, and ashed it over the railing. George stepped out into the air; it was considerably cooler than it had been earlier that day, and George was wearing considerably less. He shivered slightly as he patted down his bare arms and leaned against the side of the bunkhouse alongside Slim.

"Dreams," Slim said. He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and handed it to George. George put it in his mouth and leaned into the lit match Slim offered. "I could venture a guess about what, I'm sure."

George shook his head. His hands trembled slightly; he was willing to blame it on the chill.

"I didn't even realize they was dreams at first," he said. "Wake up every morning and the first though it my head is 'he's gone,' last thought before I go to bed at night is 'he's gone,' but goddamn if he isn't real as goddamn life the moment I close my eyes." 

"It ain't strange," Slim said. "D'you think it's strange? Dreamin' about the folk you've lost. I still dream about my mother, 'bout sittin' in her kitchen Sunday mornings 'fore Church, and how the kitchen smelled like coffee and eggs and honey." He glanced at George.

"Ain't strange," he said again, "to get caught up in the memories."

"But these ain't memories," said George. "It's like..."

Slim waited patiently as George struggled for words. George cleared his throat.

"I ain't a religious man," George began. "But if there's something after this, then Lennie... Lennie's there. With his pup, an' his rabbits. I know that sounds crazy," George said abruptly. Slim shrugged, non-commitally.

"It's like he's livin' out all the days that never came," George said. "All them days that we promised we'd live to see, all those things we'd have and all the things we'd do, he's doin' them, livin' them, without me."

They were both quiet for a moment. From inside the bunkhouse came a quiet coughing and the distant, rhythmic buzzing of snoring. Slim stubbed the end of his cigarette out beneath a boot and immediately lit another one.

"You've got an idea about it," Slim said finally. He turned to look at George. "You ain't askin' me what I think, not in words, and not by suggestion, either. You got your own thoughts on the matter. Am I right?"

"He asks after me," George said. "Every night. Asks when I'll be back. Knows I'm leaving. You'd think after what I'd done," he drew in a shaky breath, "you'd think that'd be the worst thing I coulda gone through. But then I saw him again. And he still looked at me like I'd hung the damn moon. And then I left him again. And again. And it hurts more every damn time."

Slim stared at him, eyes dark. George lowered his head.

"I can't keep doing this," he said, half to himself. "I can't."

"You be surprised what a man can learn to live with," Slim said.

"You be surprised what can push a man over the edge," George replied. "You ain't the one keeps tellin' him you can't stay even when he begs you. You ain't the one that gotta look at that face and see how lonely he's gettin'."

"He ain't real, George," Slim said slowly. "You know that, right? Dreams is dreams; memories or made-up stories, don't matter. They ain't real."

"No? I spent my whole damn life chasing a dream, Slim. Always seein' it, just outta reach, and then right when I had it, right when I could damn near touch it, I lost it. Killed it. Watched it bleed out down by the brush on the riverbanks. And that was goddamn real enough." He crossed his arms and stared up at the sky.

"I told you, 'bout the time I got Lennie to jump in the river?" he said. "Nearly drowned. Brought him back to his Aunt that night, his Aunt who raised him up like her son, and she was near beside herself. How he could killed himself, how he coulda died. 'One of the greatest tragedies,' she said, 'is to outlive a child.'" George turned back to the bunkhouse door, stared into the darkness within.

"Maybe there's just some things you ain't meant to outlive," he said. "Maybe once they go..." He shook his head, moved to open the door. Slim reached out, put a hand on his shoulder.

"Is there anything I can say?" He said. "Anything you need me to say?" George shook his head.

"Ain't a thing, Slim," George said gently. "Just needed to talk. Thanks for that."

"Have yourself a drink," Slim said. "I got myself a nice bottle of whiskey under my bunk. It's in a shoebox, next to my revolver." George glanced over his shoulder at him. His pale eyes were sad, but resigned. He nodded at George.

"You just help yourself," he said. George nodded.

"Thanks," he said.

In the dark, George had to feel along the uneven floorboards to the well worn edge of the box. Nestled inside, wrapped in the scraps of an old thermal nightshirt, was a bottle of scotch and Slim's revolver, heavy in George's hand. In the dark, in the quiet, he tipped his head back and drank like a man parched before capping it and pushing it gently back under the bed.

He got to his feet, scotch pooling warmly in his stomach, and head clear for the first time in days, and slipped out the back door, his and Lennie's bunks the only ones still neatly made and empty.

\---

He wades out just far enough, he thinks, that the currents will sweep him away. 

He stops first, momentarily, by the soft mound of earth he'd dug what seemed like an eternity ago. The earth had settled somewhat, the natural course of things, though the infrequency of men's passing by this spot made it easy to find nonetheless, where the earth was still turned rich and brown, and where there grew no mosses or marsh grass. He ran his fingers through the loose dirt. Somewhere under the immense weight of earth, Lennie was... and wasn't.

Somewhere, with his jeweled-toned rabbits and Pup, that's where Lennie was. Where he really was.

It's a good place. I'm happy here.

The water was cool, but pleasantly so. The air was still, sunrise still hours away.

From far off came the barking of a dog, and the rustle of small animals in the brush.

He put the gun in his mouth and closed his eyes.

\---

He opened his eyes to the brilliant sight of the sun rising over the Gabilan mountains, and the hollow tinkle of fresh-water clam shells. Light spread across the field stretching out before him in undulating waves of green and gold. He pushed off with his feet, setting his chair in motion, gently creaking on the runners as it rocked slowly back and forth. His body ached pleasantly, the ache of spontaneous and profound sleep somewhere not meant for sleeping. He stood and stetched, his joints popping, and stepped forward to lean on the railing. The earth was damp, the air smelling like it had rained sometime during the night, though the porch and George himself seemed to still be dry. Drops of condensation glistened on the wind chime, dew caught between the the fine grooves of the shell glittering in the sun.

"George?" The door behind him clattered open; Lennie stood in the doorway, still wearing his sleep clothes. Pup kept obediently at heel, though her tail wagged eagerly. George clapped his hands and Pup bounded forward, huffing and snorting with happiness. George tussled her ear as Lennie joined him by the railing. 

"I never did expect you so early," he said happily. George stared at him, the ghost of a grin playing on his face.

"Early?" he said. "You crazy bastard. I ain't early. I'm late. I'm so late. I shoulda been here age ago. Hell," he said, swallowing. "I never shoulda left."

"But you're here now," Lennie said. He hopeful. "You stayin'?"

"You'd have a hell of a time gettin' rid of me." George nodded back to the door of the house.

"Come on," he said, patting Pup on the rump and heading inside. "Let's make us some breakfast."


End file.
